


Just Follow the Lights

by turnonmyheels



Category: Friday Night Lights, Gossip Girl
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-29
Updated: 2010-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:50:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnonmyheels/pseuds/turnonmyheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>15 years later after season one of Gossip Girl, Chuck Bass is in Dillon, Texas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Follow the Lights

"Damn it!" Tim mutters under his breath as his knuckle gets caught on a ragged edge of the crank for the third time. He props his wrench on the Hummer's air filter and sucks the blood off his finger wishing he had a cold beer.

"What part of I'm not staying in Bumfuck, Texas do you not understand Dad?" Tim picks up his wrench and goes back to work. The sooner he gets this asshole out of here the sooner he can have his beer and forget about the cocky fucker who's worn a hole in his garage floor, pacing back in forth in shiny shoes that Tim guesses cost more than every pair of shoes he's ever owned added together. And then some. "The tests say the oil fields are good. The equipment needs upgrading and there seems to be no end of rednecks out of work. It's a viable project that is guaranteed to succeed in the current political and economical climate. I don't need to be here to oversee it."

Tim clenches his jaw and tightens another bolt. He's wanted to smash this guy's face in with his wrench all day, but he's been holding back, because of the _chance_ these guys might re-open the oil fields. He's not so young that he can't remember what it was like when the oil and subsequently the money flowed in Dillon. He tightens another bolt, and stands up straight, bending backwards a little to work out the cramp in his lower back. He wipes his hand on a rag and steps down off the stool and starts to climb inside the Hummer and turn the key.

"Get your greasy, sweaty hand away from the interior of my car."

Tim closes his eyes to block out the image he has of wrapping this dude's fucking blue scarf - who wears a scarf in Texas in August - around his neck and choking him to death with it. Instead he plasters a fake grin on his face and motions to the car like a girl from _The Price is Right_, "your chariot awaits." He has to bite his tongue to stop the "you prick" from finishing that sentence. Mr. Blue Scarf sits and turns the key, and the Hummer purrs to life.

"Effing finally." He says and cuts the engine.

Tim closes his eyes and rocks back on his heels, glad to take his weight off the balls of his feet, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Five minutes, maybe ten, long enough to collect payment, store his tools and lock the door. Then he can go home and drink his beer. Shower, slip into his trunks and go for a swim. Maybe after that he'll head down to the field, Coach said he needed some help with the backs this week if Tim had the time.

"Here, this should cover it." The guy shoves a fist full of wadded up cash at Tim. There's at least seven hundred dollars there, maybe more. Tim takes the money, not bothering to smooth it out or count it and drops it in his tool box.

"You have a nice day now." He turns his back on the guy and starts putting his tools back where they belong. Wiping off excessive smudges of grease, lining everything up just so. Street laughed the first time he saw him do it, said Tim was developing OCD in his old age. Tim's not a hundred percent sure what that is, but he figures it's not anything bad because there was a gleam of pride in Jay's eyes when he said it.

"Are there any clubs or bars in this hell hole?"

Tim shrugs and heads to the sink. "Depends on what you're looking for. There's the titty bar by the highway and the Round Up over by the tracks." He rubs the GoJo in paying attention to his cuticles and his nails and rinses off. "There's a bar at the Country Club but you've got to be a member to get in. You'd probably be better off at Applebee's though."

"Really? Why is that?"

 

"First time you open your mouth around an out of work redneck wearing that scarf you're gonna get the shit kicked outta you and they don't allow fighting in Applebee's." Tim wipes his hands off on the towel by the sink that never comes clean no matter how many times he bleaches it and turns around to face the guy. He's wearing a smirk that Tim recognizes, one he's seen staring back at him in the mirror his entire life. This guy might not be looking to get his ass kicked, but he's not turning down any takers.

"I'll take my chances." The smirk gets even bigger.

"You do that. And while you're at it, why don't you go ahead and leave so I can get home?"

The guy raises an eyebrow and climbs in his Hummer. "See you around." The engine turns over pretty as you please and he drives out of the garage nearly taking off his side-view mirror in the process.

"God, I hope not." Tim pushes the button that closes the overhead door and counts the money whistling at the total. Fifteen hundred dollars. He was gonna charge him four hundred but figures he'll take the extra as a tip for listening to his mouth all day. He makes a mental note to tell Street so the books don't get messed up, turns off the lights, and goes home.

The guy mostly slips from Tim's mind. He hears people bitching about the asshole running around town but he's only heard about a couple of scuffles. He's seen the bright yellow Hummer here and there, mostly in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and the Landing Strip. August rolls into September and September rolls into October. The Panthers are 7-1 by Homecoming - it's Little Jay's first year on Varsity and he's kicking ass. Tim's been working with him since he could hold a ball, under Jay's watchful eye, and couldn't be more proud if he was his own.

 

Tim's closing the shop early - there's going to be a special half-time ceremony for the alumnae State Champions - and he's got to clean up, put on his coaching uniform and get to the field house but the yellow Hummer pulls into the garage before he gets the door closed. The Hummer's beat all to hell. The headlights and tail lights are bashed in, and it looks like somebody took a baseball bat to the hood, doors, and windows.

"Need you to fix this, by next Friday." The guy's not looking any better than his Hummer; black eyes, busted lip, walking with a limp, but he's wearing a cocky grin and twirls the end of his scarf (red with little black checks this time) in Tim's direction.

Tim shakes his heads toward his office. "You need to take it to the dealership." He rifles around on his desk for the card to Garrity Motors, finds it and holds it out to him.

If anything his grin gets bigger. "The guy in the shop is the one who did this, I can't exactly take it there."

Tim can't help but be curious, Santiago's as good as they come these days. "What'd you do?"

"Might have made some moves on his cousin." He cocks an eyebrow at him and Tim knows he did more than make some moves.

"Carmelita?" He nods and Tim whistles appreciatively. Carmelita's one of the finest pieces of ass in West Texas. Hell make that _Texas_. Not that he knows from first hand experience, he and Santiago came to an agreement a long time ago about each other's women - hands off.

"Can you do it?"

"I can do the work, but I can't guarantee the parts'll be here in time to get it done." Tim leans against the door frame and scratches the back of his neck.

"Money is no object." He pulls a wad out of cash out of his pocket bigger than Tim's fist and starts counting off hundreds.

"If money's no object, why not buy a new one?"

He stops counting and looks up at Tim. "That was a gift from a friend. Who will be here next Saturday, hence the having it ready by Friday."

The clock on the wall keeps getting closer to four o'clock and Tim has to get going if he's going to be on time. "Look I've gotta go. Why don't you come by here tomorrow morning and I'll tell you what I need, and make the calls. You can pay for the parts and shipping over the phone."

"You're open on Saturdays?" He raises his eyebrows, obviously surprised.

"Not usually. But I've got to go now and this'll take some time." Tim doesn't grab him by the arm and drag him out but only barely.

"What's so important?"

Tim returns the guy's surprised expression. "It's Friday night." He gets no recognition from Mr. Money Bags. "The game?" Still nothing. "The football game? It's Homecoming weekend?"

The guy shoves his money back in his pocket and finally walks out of the garage muttering under his breath. "Different fucking world. Different fucking world." Tim's headed to his truck when the only Taxi service in town pulls up to the curb. "Hey, if I wanted to go to this game, how would I find it?"

"Just follow the lights man." Tim can't imagine this guy at the game. Not for all the money in the world.

"Chuck Bass."

Tim grins and waves in his direction. "Just follow the lights, Chuck Bass, you can't miss it."

~*~

The Vicodan is hitting him now. Cruising through his system cushioning him, building the barrier he likes to keep between him and the rest of the world, taking the edge off the throb in his face, the ache in his leg. When he's cruising this altitude he can admit it to himself, that the pill is filling up that empty spot inside him, though it doesn't stop him from laughing at himself for it. He's needed a thicker buffer than usual in Dillon, Texas, and promises himself as he watches an old lady buy a fucking "co-cola" served in a genuine paper cup at least a fortnight in one of Blair's favorite spas. Maybe the one in Oahu. He'll need the wraps and the tonics, the massages with no-happy endings, and the quiet to detox, exfoliate the Texas dust right off.

He's traveled the world. Stayed in the oldest and most exclusive private homes and resorts the world has to offer. He's built factories and warehouses in the cheapest -- poorest -- slums from Taiwan to Congo and every third world refuge in between. He's never wanted, no _needed_ a barrier between him and reality as much as he has here.

The, not goodness, Jesus knew and was apparently walking among these Texans; that the people were anything but *good*. You couldn't be good and have built an arena to worship anything other than god, like these people had. He remembered reading another 6 teachers lost their jobs last week beside the column proudly proclaiming that the old Jumbotron was being replaced with one bigger, sharper, and flatter. Which he supposed explained the turnout. He'd noticed in a vague, pill/booze foggy way that the town rolled up the sidewalks on Friday nights, but this ... this has to be these people's version of Times Square on New Years Eve.

He cringes at the purple/teal cowboy boots with bleached out denim stuffed into the tops and white cowboy hat that crosses his line of sight. His turn at the snack bar, he focuses on the menu and can't suppress the sneer that crosses his face when the strongest item on the menu he can find is coffee. No alcohol at a high school function? He's never heard of such nonsense in his entire life -- can't imagine St. Jude or Constance without their champagne punch bowls, open bars, and tuxedo-clad waiters. It's a good thing he's got a pocket full of pills and a flask in his pocket. "Coffee." The server reaches for a styrofoam cup. "I'm not drinking a hot beverage out of a toxic container."

Another head turns, a hand hides a snickering mouth.

The server looks confused, Chuck shakes his head and gives in. "I'll have a Coke." He refuses to say co-cola. Or pop. Conceding to drink a soft drink at all means he's already lost, and Chuck hates to lose. He makes his way to the bleachers, sits down front and center, leer on automatic, as a couple of under-dressed sixteen-year-olds glare at him and slide down the bleacher pointedly leaving a couple of feet between them and him. He pulls his flask out of his pocket and makes a production out of drinking it. He takes a second swallow and smacks his lips at the old lady glaring at him from the next row over.

Fucking hell these people were judgmental. He's been in the bars, the liquor stores, and what these cretins say passes for fine dining establishments. He's seen the empty bottles scattered across the oil fields from what he presumes are the teenage drinking parties on Monday mornings. They have no right to judge him.

The announcer's voice has an echo at the end of it. It begins to fade away as the stadium fills, and Chuck misses the resonating wah-wah effect it was giving him. And then the Dillon Panthers are announced and a roar, something he's never heard replicated at any sporting event in the world, takes it place. Young men, clad in gold and blue run toward him, breaking through a blue and gold paper poster and everyone jumps to their feet. Clapping, yelling, laughing, whistles pierce the air. Chuck feels like he's on a different planet.

They're just kids. It's just a game.

How can it mean so much to a group of adults? How can they put so much stake in something so capricious? He wraps his scarf around his neck, kicks his feet up on the bleachers in front of him, legs spread, arms extended on either side. He's the only person in the stadium taking up enough room for 3 people, it's not much in the grand game of pissing people off wherever he goes, but he'll take his kicks where can get them in Texas.

There's a coin-flip, a kickoff, and people are yelling and screaming all around him. The sun sets and the lights shine bright and then brighter. He sees his mechanic down on the field. Tight faded out jeans, blue and gold Panther jacket. The mechanic yells a lot, knocks more than a few kid's helmets into one another and claps. And when that one kid -- in the six jersey -- throws the ball from one end of the field to nearly the other and it's caught and then a score, the expression on Tim Riggins' face is transcendental. He's punching his fist in the air, hugging the kid, picking him up and spinning him around when he runs off the field. They both look over to someone and wave so Chuck follows their gaze and sees a guy in a wheelchair. He can see the family resemblance between him and the kid. Can see more in the faces of the men as they share a look between them.

Chuck knows that look intimately. It's history. A lifetime of shared pain and joy. Riggins ducks his head, slaps the kid on the shoulder, and gives a blinding smile to the guy in the wheelchair before turning his attention back to the game. Yeah, Chuck knows that look, sex and love and hate and anger. Trust, joy, pain, and betrayal built over a lifetime. He can't help but miss Nate. And Blair. Can't stop the wheels in his mind from spinning out what he's going to do with them when they visit. He pops another pill and chases it with a swallow from his flask. It's more than he needs for the beating he took the other night but just enough to let him coast through the night. He lets the game and the town play out its dramas around him, while he observes from behind the safety curtain of Vicodan.

The sounds of the game cover him like a blanket as he tries to envision Blair in Dillon. The only place she'll be remotely comfortable is the mansion he's renting. She'll refuse to eat in any of the restaurants, he'll have to order groceries special from Austin and fly someone in from New York to cook. It'll be worth it though, to see her in the hot tub, glass of champagne in hand, beneath the wide star-filled Texas sky. He doesn't think a lot of Texas -- but Chuck can give credit where it's due. Texas is filled with hot bodies and a sky so broad and wide it makes him feel like ...

Well. It makes him feel. Blair under the night sky and Nate in the sun. He'll love the lake and the speedboat Chuck picked just for him. It's no catamaran off the coast of Maine, but it'll bring out the sailor in Nate. A week, maybe two, and then they'll go. Blair to Paris, Nate wherever his wanderlust takes him next.

Two hours -- and a couple more pills later -- the town has paraded every living state champion in the town across the field and the Panthers win the game by a landslide. The stadium slowly empties, plenty of people run out on the field to hug players and coaches, linger on the field until the lights start to shut down.

His presence on the bench finally captures Riggins' attention and Chuck holds up his flask in invitation. Riggins shrugs in response and walks off toward the guy in the wheelchair. There's plenty of back slapping, laughing, and a hug, and then the entire stadium is empty, the lights are off, and Riggins is walking toward him. He stops at the bleachers in front of Chuck tosses his keys in the air and catches them.

"Got plans?"

Chuck turns up his flask and empties it into his mouth. "Thought I'd head over to the Round Up."

"Looking to get your ass beat again?"

"Que sera sera."

Riggins tilts his head and doesn't speak.

Chuck tries to wait it out, make him talk but apparently this guy can win silence competitions as well as state football championships. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Most of the town's coming back to my place to party."

"Is that an offer to protect me from the rednecks?"

"Nah." Tim shakes his head. "It's an offer to be the one and only redneck to kick your ass tonight. The others won't mess with you if they think you're mine."

There's no guile on his face, no suggestion by the quirk of his mouth or eyebrow to suggest Riggins is aware of how his statement could be interpreted. "Is that so?" Chuck asks with enough heat in his voice to make him squirm if he doesn't swing that way.

"Yeah."

Perfect deadpan delivery. He's mistaken stupidity for inscrutability before and refuses to be fooled again, so even though his gut tells him this guy is just plain dumb, his brain won't let him believe it. "Lead on, cowboy." Riggins turns on his cowboy boot clad heel and Chuck gets an incredible view of his ass. Can't believe some off the wall brand like Carhartt could fit a man so well. He'll have to look into the designer and see what else they have to offer.

"You need a ride?" Riggins asks as he opens the driver's door to the oldest and nastiest pickup truck Chuck's seen in his life.

He makes a point of looking around the empty parking lot and holds his hands out wide. "It seems my taxi didn't wait."

That's how Chuck Bass, captain of industry and all around poor little rich ~~boy~~ man finds himself in a run-down brick rancher in West Texas drinking cheap beer out of a nearly empty keg, shooting the best tequila he's ever tasted, and comparing life stories with a quadriplegic. The house emptied out at least an hour ago, and Chuck popped his last pill an hour before that. Jason's head is nodding and Tim is leaning against the wall looking like something straight out of a photo shoot. Chuck takes his time taking in his appearance. Bare feet, ankles crossed. Ass resting against the wall, only two buttons on his fly are in use. His arms are crossed, his chest is bare and that inscrutable look has been replaced by what can only be described as come-hither.

Tim tilts his head toward the back of the house where no doubt a sub-standard mattress and possibly the fucking of his life are waiting.

Who is Chuck to say no?

~*~

Chuck doesn't stagger or slur his speech despite all the booze and pills, and Tim has to admit he's impressed. He knows firsthand how much partying it takes to build up a tolerance like that. He also knows firsthand how damaging it is inside and out and how much work it takes to stop doing it. He sees distaste flash across Chuck's face as he steps inside and sweeps his eyes across Tim's room. It distantly reminds him of the first time Lyla saw it. It's easy enough to let unconscious insults slide off his back now, some people are just like that -- uncomfortable when they're not surrounded by wealth. It's one of those facts of life Tim's come to understand, regardless of how silly he thinks it is. Usually it makes him laugh his ass off, but with a guy like Chuck he reckons it's just the way it is. Guy's probably never slept on anything less than a $6,000 mattress in his entire life.

"How's this going to work?" Chuck asks as he tugs his shirt out of his pants and starts unbuttoning it.

Tim lets his slow, lazy grin do the talking for him and cocks his head in Chuck's direction. The guy is so fun to mess with that he can't help himself.

Chuck kicks off his shoes before sitting on the bed to take off his socks. "No more of this silent treatment bullshit, tell me how this is going to go."

"What? Men don't get off together where you're from?" Tim lies back on the bed, legs splayed out, hands behind his head. He knows exactly how good he looks even without seeing the hungry gleam in Chuck's eyes.

Chuck's down to his purple silk underwear now, standing at the foot of Tim's bed, hands on his hips. "So what, it's a jerk-off session? A Dutch rudder? Maybe a double-Dutch?"

Tim has no idea at all what a Dutch rudder is, single or double.

"Maybe I suck you off and you fuck me because Texas men don't do fag?" The boxer-briefs are gone now and Tim takes in Chuck's naked body. It's nice. A little soft, but definitely not flabby. Some definition in the legs. He looks like a man who has worked out in gyms his whole life and never once played a game more physically damaging than tennis at the club. No scars from surgeries or any other kind of injuries that Tim can see. His skin is pale and Tim's a bit surprised to see the dense chest hair that thins out only a bit toward his belly button before narrowing down to a trail. He would never have imagined someone as fancy as Chuck Bass would allow unnecessary hair. Anywhere.

Tim sits up and panther crawls to the end of the bed. He clamps one hand over Chuck's mouth before he can say anything more insulting or arrogant than he already has. Tim may be ready to get off with the dude, but he's sick and damn tired of that mouth. Has been since the first time he showed up in Tim's shop and pranced around like a prince all day. "Shut up and get up here." Chuck shows no sign of following directions, so Tim wraps his arms around his waist and heaves Chuck up off his feet and onto the mattress. By the time he's finished bouncing, Tim's hovering over him on all fours. He sits back on Chuck's thighs and drags his fingertips down from Chuck's collarbone, lingering by his belly button, drawing a couple circles there before finishing at his balls and giving them a tug. "Nice."

"Come on man, give me a clue." There's command in the voice though the face is telling Tim he's not nearly as sure of himself as he was before Tim picked him up and tossed him on the bed. Tim wraps one hand around Chuck's cock and gives it a stroke. Then another. "Okay, you aren't afraid to touch my dick --" Tim does the only thing he can think of to shut Chuck up while keeping one hand on Chuck's dick stroking it occasionally.

He doesn't ease in to the kiss and make it soft and sweet. He doesn't lick his way inside and tease Chuck's tongue into his mouth. That would be too easy and possibly give Chuck too much time to think up more questions. What he does is this: grab a handful of Chuck's hair and yank it back so his head hits the mattress and exposes his throat. Chuck's mouth falls open and Tim dives inside tongue first. Wet, messy, technique for shit, but the cock in his hand jerks in response and Chuck shuts the hell up and that's enough for Tim.

For now.

Chuck's arms wrap around his back and his hands roam up and down Tim's back squeezing his ass, reaching around and under to tug his balls. Tim grunts a little into Chuck's mouth and bites his way across his face then down his throat. He's leaving marks and he really doesn't give a shit. Not with Chuck sounding like a forty dollar whore writhing beneath them. Chuck abandons Tim's ass and wraps both hands around the one Tim's gripping him with, bringing his languid strokes to stillness.

"Look," Chuck starts.

"Jesus Christ." Tim sits back on his haunches, letting Chuck's dick slide between the cheeks of his ass to prove his point. He's genuinely pissed and about to be out of the mood if Chuck doesn't get over himself. "I want to get off. With you. Since you seem to like that plan" -- Tim tugs Chuck's dick once more -- "get with it already. If you need a business model or some shit; there's condoms and lube and handcuffs and a dozen other things in the drawer." He tugs once more and adds a twist at the top before letting go and rolling off of Chuck completely. Chuck sits up and opens the drawer and pilfers through it. "If you're this caught up in who gets to be on top or want to brag to your buddies about fucking a Texas redneck, be my guest." Chuck's back is as smooth as his chest was hairy. His skin is pale and completely unmarked and Tim can't help but reach out and touch it. Chuck stiffens for a second before relaxing back against his hand. Tim traces the contour of his spine and shoulder blades. "I always like to play things by ear, see how it unfolds." He shrugs to himself and sits up on his knees to lick his way up Chuck's spine.

"That's the most I've ever heard you say since I met you." Chuck tries to close the drawer but it sticks if you don't jimmy it up from the left and then toward the right; Tim's too curious to see what Chuck wants to play with to explain it, so he crawls over him to do it himself.

"You, are far more ... creative than I would have ever given you credit for." Chuck's sitting Indian-style on the bed laying out a line of condoms (flavored, ribbed, glow in the dark), different lubes (plain, tingling, spermicidal, cherry), matching up the lube and condoms like he's dealing a game of Texas Hold'em. He deals out a cockring, butt-plug, feather, and a slinky between the condoms.

"Sex wasn't invented in the city you know." Tim picks up the slinky and lets it do it's thing from one hand to the other. "There's not a lot to do in Bumfuck, and you need to mix it up every once in a while." Tim sets the slinky on his shoulder and let's it walk it's way down his body and over to Chuck's before it loses traction and falls on the bed.

Chuck picks up the slinky and stretches it out as far as his arms will reach. "A slinky?" He eyes it dubiously. "You win Riggins."

"I didn't know we were playing a game."

Chuck laughs a little and hands Tim the slinky. "I'm always playing a game and tonight you're the winner." He lays back, propping himself up on his elbows, splaying his legs out wide. "I'm the prize."

Tim rolls his eyes and gathers the slinky up, making it as small as he can before sliding it down Chuck's erect cock. "Some prize."

~*~

**Epilogue**

Chuck wakes the next morning and winces. The cheap-ass blinds on the windows do nothing to block the early morning sun, and his head feels like he drank all the tequila in Texas last night. Sitting up is worse though, because every muscle he has and some he wasn't aware of ache. He's covered in bites and bruises and dried lube is making him itch in some rather uncomfortable places. He starts to get out of bed when one of those monster hands connected to an arm the size of an anaconda wraps around him and pulls him back to bed.

"Stay."

"Gotta piss." Chuck extricates himself from the grip.

"Come back when you're through." Tim blinks up at him and smiles a little. "You can be on top this time."

That's an invitation Chuck can't refuse.


End file.
